Capital
I pack the revolver
Running plays
Imma blitz like a charger
Chillin wit my main bitch
Chillin in the matrix
Life's too hard
And I'm just trynna fuck
Get my cake up
I ain't a rapper motherucker
I'm just a capitalist
Land of the free
Give no fucks
So yes I'm smackin bitches
I'm the man wit no plan
Gettin by on pure intellect
The futures a mystery
And I'm Sherlock Holmes
I see yo bitch ass plotting
I see yo bitch ass hating
You don't know shit about me
All's you know is that I get that bacon
And it taste so good
So yes imma rub it in your face
Told you I don't give no fucks
Told you about my dinner plate
Told you about that bed
Told you I don't be sleeping
6 hour naps & now I'm partying with demons
Yusuke Urameshi
I don't know who I am
Got bitches on my dick
Like I'm Mike Vick
Just made it out the end zone
But if you think it's ending
You thinkin hella wrong
From New York
But I'm repping DC
Doom Canal in ya mouth like a sick boy needed vitamin C
Got that vitamin D
You know I'm ready to bone
Your bitch already dipped
And you ain't even know
She chillIn at my brib
She chillin at my crib
She chill in my fridge
Cuz I like cold food
When I'm high as a bitch
Fat dimes & dubs
Winter crimes & loves
Blunt after blunt
After blunt
After blunt
After blunt
After blunt
After blunt
But fuck all that
Cuz right now I'm trynna drink
What's good wit that eggnog boo
Got potential for greatness
But I waste it on getting wasted
Fuck the future
Fuck the past
Fuck the bullshit
Fuck it right in the ass
I love all music
Indie music
White music
Tight music
Rap music
Trap music
Black music
Crack music
Crash music
Cash music
Loud music
That ignant shit
That who the fuck you think you fuckin wit shit
Who you think you is bruh
You say you the man
But you really a bitch ass
Motheruckin little dick deformed lookin
No game having son of a bitch
You thinkin you big
I see you but you ain't real
You ain't shit
Ain't kissin bitches
You ain't copping feels
I look like Kevin Hart
So I say it wit my chest
Having you second guess
Who you thought was the best
I'm like the lamb of god
When I lay this to rest
Otherwise known as the messiah
Testify these bullets
My words is fire
I talk about a lot of shit that don't exist
Call me the ghost writer
But when I park my car
And then I fuck yo bitch
Call me the ghost rider
Burning rubber tires
Why's my shit always gotta be so on fire
Blame it on chipotle
I get so much green
I call it guacamole
Running plays
Imma blitz like a charger
Chillin wit my main bitch
Chillin in the matrix
Life's too hard
And I'm just trynna fuck
Get my cake up
I ain't a rapper motherucker
I'm just a capitalist
Land of the free
Give no fucks
So yes I'm smackin bitches
I'm the man wit no plan
Gettin by on pure intellect
The futures a mystery
And I'm Sherlock Holmes
I see yo bitch ass plotting
I see yo bitch ass hating
You don't know shit about me
All's you know is that I get that bacon
And it taste so good
So yes imma rub it in your face
Told you I don't give no fucks
Told you about my dinner plate
Told you about that bed
Told you I don't be sleeping
6 hour naps & now I'm partying with demons
Yusuke Urameshi
I don't know who I am
Got bitches on my dick
Like I'm Mike Vick
Just made it out the end zone
But if you think it's ending
You thinkin hella wrong
From New York
But I'm repping DC
Doom Canal in ya mouth like a sick boy needed vitamin C
Got that vitamin D
You know I'm ready to bone
Your bitch already dipped
And you ain't even know
She chillIn at my brib
She chillin at my crib
She chill in my fridge
Cuz I like cold food
When I'm high as a bitch
Fat dimes & dubs
Winter crimes & loves
Blunt after blunt
After blunt
After blunt
After blunt
After blunt
After blunt
But fuck all that
Cuz right now I'm trynna drink
What's good wit that eggnog boo
Got potential for greatness
But I waste it on getting wasted
Fuck the future
Fuck the past
Fuck the bullshit
Fuck it right in the ass
I love all music
Indie music
White music
Tight music
Rap music
Trap music
Black music
Crack music
Crash music
Cash music
Loud music
That ignant shit
That who the fuck you think you fuckin wit shit
Who you think you is bruh
You say you the man
But you really a bitch ass
Motheruckin little dick deformed lookin
No game having son of a bitch
You thinkin you big
I see you but you ain't real
You ain't shit
Ain't kissin bitches
You ain't copping feels
I look like Kevin Hart
So I say it wit my chest
Having you second guess
Who you thought was the best
I'm like the lamb of god
When I lay this to rest
Otherwise known as the messiah
Testify these bullets
My words is fire
I talk about a lot of shit that don't exist
Call me the ghost writer
But when I park my car
And then I fuck yo bitch
Call me the ghost rider
Burning rubber tires
Why's my shit always gotta be so on fire
Blame it on chipotle
I get so much green
I call it guacamole
Credits
Writer(s): Michael Prado
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
Link
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